


Burnt bridges

by Eloise_C



Series: Sherlock Season 4 Fix-it [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry!John, Angst, Attempt at catharsis, BAMF!John, Belts, Consensual Violence, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Johnlock, First Time, Friendship/Love, Guilt, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, John and Sherlock are dysfunctional, M/M, Missing Scene, Non-Sexual Spanking, Pre-Slash, Sad!John, Sad!Sherlock, Sherlock is not a high-functioning sociopath, Slow Burn, Spanking, TFP? What TFP?, TLD fix-it, sort of, trash!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:14:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9470990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloise_C/pseuds/Eloise_C
Summary: Set after the scene in the morgue in TLD. John makes an unexpected offer to Sherlock to rebuild the bridges burnt between them.





	1. An unexpected offer

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set some time between Sherlock’s release from the hospital and the hug in TLD. Not TFP compliant.

John wasn’t sure it was a good idea anymore. He couldn’t even think why he ever thought it might be. They were sitting in their chairs in 221B. Sherlock was nursing his tea, looking at him a bit bashfully. Since that horrible day in the morgue, he never seemed completely comfortable around John. The realization convinced John to speak up.

‘Sherlock, there’s— something— I—’

Sherlock shifted a bit in his chair, not breaking eye contact.

‘In the morgue, when I lost control— I — never— I can’t—’

‘It’s all right, John. I mean it.’

‘But it’s not all right! I know you mean it, but it’s not. I’m not entitled to beating you. No one is ever entitled to beating anyone. Ever. I was heartbroken and frustrated. It doesn’t excuse my behaviour and I want to tell you how sorry I am—’

‘John, I—’

‘Please let me finish. That’s not all of it. First, I need you to accept my apology.’

‘I accept it. Wholeheartedly. I understand, and you had every right to be angry at me.’ 

Sherlock looked despondent and tired.

‘Thank you.’ John paused. The next part was going to be more difficult. ‘The reason I feel so bad about— it is that a part of me felt good doing it.’ Hearing himself say it led John to realize two things at the same time: one, he knew it was true, and two, at some point, he'd lost track of who he was. Both thoughts were equally scary, 

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Sherlock, but your insistence that it’s all right— I don’t know— Was it somehow cathartic for you too?’

Sherlock frowned. The conversation was taking a turn he clearly hadn’t expected.

‘I suppose it was,’ he answered, carefully. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Mary’s death was avoidable. It was unnecessary and we both blame you for it. I think it’s pretty clear we’re wrong. But I'm angry at you all the time and—and—you hardly look at me anymore. So—I've been thinking about a way to deal with it for now. It’s probably a bad idea, though.’

‘What is it?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Controlled violence.’

‘You want to beat me again?’ Sherlock asked easily. Now he got it. Maybe it wouldn't be that difficult.

‘Yes. But only if it can help you—deal with—everything.’

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak but didn’t say anything. He sat up and put down his tea on the table next to his chair. 

‘I agree.’

‘You agree?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you want to discuss specifics?’

‘I do, but it won’t change my answer.’

In a way, John wasn’t surprised. Since the day he had come back from the dead, Sherlock had always taken what John dished out. It needed to be addressed, but for now, it could actually help them heal. Or so John thought.

‘The operative word is ‘controlled’ violence. I would never start hitting you in public or out of the blue. I wouldn’t leave scars or use anything dangerous on you.’

‘All right.’

‘I want you to choose a safeword, and I want you to swear to me you would use it if you felt the need.’

‘All right.’

‘I’m serious, Sherlock. Please don’t just agree, I need to be sure you’re in on whatever this is.’

‘I’m in. It might help, My safeword is ‘stop’.’

John felt some of his stress leave his body. Sherlock's choice showed John that Sherlock didn't see this as some elaborate mind game. He took it quite literally. 

‘Do you have conditions, Sherlock?’

‘When would we do this?’

‘I was thinking maybe we can both ask for it whenever we feel the need, and if the other one is amenable, we can just go for it.’

‘What if the other wasn’t amenable?’

‘Then it wouldn’t happen, obviously.’

Sherlock looked at John even more intently.

‘You surprise me, John. I didn’t think you would be one for this kind of redemption.’

John shrugged.

‘Not redemption, no. I just want to feel a bit less shitty until I’m ready to work on why I feel shitty. It’s a temporary arrangement until we see things more clearly. That’s how I think of it.’

For a second, Sherlock’s eyes seemed to fill with a longing that made John’s heart hurt.

‘I have one more condition.’

‘What it is?’

‘I want to start now.’


	2. Not child's play

‘What, right now?’

‘Did you have something better to do?’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just — you’ve been out of the hospital for less than a week. I don’t want to send you back.’

‘What we’re planning has nothing to do with what happened in the morgue. Controlled violence, remember? You came up with it.’

Trust Sherlock to take your plan out of your hands and own it. Hitting Sherlock was pleasant as an abstract notion, but the reality of what it involved made John nervous. A lot more nervous than Sherlock looked sitting across from him, the image of quiet resolution.

‘All right, then.’

Though he still looked tired and sad, for the first time since Mary died, Sherlock also looked in control.

Sherlock made to get up from the chair, as John started thinking out loud.

‘Right, logistics. Um — We haven’t talked about the possibility that you might — want to respond in kind. Is that something that could happen?’

The thought hadn't occurred to him until then. If it was the case, John might have to call in sick tomorrow. It could also problematic, what with Rosie needing… 

‘No,’ Sherlock said quietly.

‘All right,’ John repeated.

‘Where do you want me?’ Sherlock asked.

John started giggling. 

‘I hope Mycroft, Moriarty, Magnussen, Smith and God knows who don’t have microphones all over your flat. People would talk.’

Sherlock chuckled.

Suddenly, John knew what to do.

‘I’m going to spank you.’

‘Okay.’ Sherlock seemed set on agreeing to everything, but this clearly took him by surprise. ‘Isn’t it a bit—childish?’ 

‘I don't think so. I would never spank a child. But I was spanked as a child and let me tell you, it can sting a lot.’

It was a good idea. If Sherlock wasn’t going to hit John back, then the position would work. And John could cause as much damage as he felt like. And it wouldn’t show afterwards. Yes. Definitely a good idea.

Sherlock still seemed a bit unsure, shuffling his feet on the red rug.

‘I won’t do anything without your consent,’ John assured him.

‘No, it’s fine.’

Strange, John thought. Looking for solutions with Sherlock, he felt closer to him than he had in a while.

‘Why don’t you bend over the desk?’ John offered. 

Sherlock was wearing his thick camel dressing gown. He shrugged it off and placed it on his chair. He walked over to the desk and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface.

John clenched his right fist twice and made his way to Sherlock’s left side.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Ready.’

After a moment's hesitation, John put his right hand on the small of Sherlock’s back as he drew his left hand back. 

CRASH

They both jumped, but neither spoke. John swung again once, twice, three times. It was satisfying, even more so that he had anticipated. Sherlock hadn’t moved since the first blow. John took it as encouragement to proceed and continued hitting Sherlock’s clothed arse relentlessly.

After about a minute, John's hand was smarting. He'd have to use some kind of implement. 

‘Here,’ he told Sherlock. ‘Pass me your belt.’

Sherlock stood up without a word. As he did so, John noticed that Sherlock's face was flushed and that he was slightly out of breath. Averting John's eyes, Sherlock obeyed and assumed the position again.

John doubled the belt over and hit it experimentally across his right palm, feeling the sting build after a second. It was going to hurt.

He placed his hand on Sherlock’s back a bit more firmly and got back to his task. After three blows, he heard Sherlock gasp softly. 

‘Do you need to safeword out?’ he asked.

Sherlock simply shook his head, eyes still front.

‘I’m going to give you ten more and we’ll stop, okay?’

Without waiting for Sherlock to reply, John resumed his belting, hitting harder than previously. After the second blow, John heard Sherlock gasp again and after the fourth, a muffled groan. At number five, he thought Sherlock was shaking. John didn't let up.

CRASH!

CRASH!

CRASH!

CRASH!

CRAAASH!

John dropped the belt on the floor and took a step back. His own breath was erratic and he was sweating. John felt like he could use a bit of space. He crossed the room to the kitchen and got himself a glass of water. He gulped it down and poured himself and Sherlock a glass of water each.

‘You okay?’ he asked from the kitchen.

He hadn’t thought to ask Sherlock the question until then.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock answered, his back to John, rubbing his face, .

When Sherlock turned towards John, it was clear that he had been crying. 

It was fine.

John walked over to the desk and handed Sherlock his water. They both drank it quietly. As strange as the situation should have been, it wasn't awkward.

After a couple of minutes, Sherlock broke the silence.

‘You were right, John.’

‘Eh?’

‘Not so childish after all.’

Sherlock put his glass down and went to his bedroom without another word. 

John waited uncertainly for about ten minutes, and then decided to leave.  
For the time being, there wasn’t anything else that needed to be said.


	3. Anxious

John didn’t see Sherlock for the remainder of the week. 

During the day, he was busy at the surgery, and in the evening, he was busy with Rosie. It still gave him time to ponder how he felt about his and Sherlock’s last meeting. 

Since Mary’s death, John usually dreaded any kind of down time in his schedule, as it allowed him to think. In between patients or on his way home from work, his mind seemed to wander irresistibly to the thought of Mary’s death. Dark, slippery shadows filled his daydreams, interspersed with flashes of blond curly hair, a bright smile, and red liquid stains. But the rest of John’s week brought, well, not peace, but a sense of enormous sadness rather than the sheer horror of the past weeks.

In other words, the experiment had been successful. The night of Sherlock’s first spanking, John slept relatively well, woken only by Rosie’s cries in the early morning. After tending to her, John poured himself a glass of whisky and wondered not for the first time whether Sherlock had found the experiment as beneficial as he did. The question didn’t feel like text material and John planned to wait until the next time he would see Sherlock to ask him in person. 

John had Monday off, and, with Rosie at child care, he decided to pay Sherlock a visit. Using his old key, he let himself in through the front door and climbed the steps to 221B. 

‘Sherlock? Can I come in?’ he asked from behind the door to the flat, which was ajar.

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John pushed the door open. The detective was sitting in his chair, his long fingers tented right under his nose. 

‘Sherlock? Didn’t you hear—’ 

‘Hello, John,’ Lestrade said, affably, from the sofa. 

‘Greg, hi.’ John stopped in his tracks. ‘Is this about a case?’

‘Yeah. A school got broken into. Nothing was stolen, but whoever got in left a couple hundred identical letters in the headmistress’s office. They’re everywhere, on the floor, on the desk, in the drawers, even in the fireplace. Bloody safety hazard, that.’

‘That’s right up your alley, isn’t it, Sherlock?’

For the third time, John’s words were left unanswered. 

John was starting to feel a rising wave of anxiety. Sherlock may well be the rudest person he knew, but he didn’t usually ignore John’s direct questions.

‘Superficial,’ Sherlock finally said to no one in particular.‘Lestrade, I’ll text you the address of the headmistress’s ex girlfriend.’

‘Ex girlfriend?’

‘Yes, obviously. You can leave now.’

‘Yeah, okay, I'll be on my way then.’

Lestrade waved good bye to John and left the flat.

‘Do you want me to go, too?’ John asked Sherlock hesitantly.

‘No. Would you make us some tea?’

‘Sure.’

John removed his coat and started assembling water, loose tea, cups, milk and sugar.

‘How have you been?’ he asked.

‘Fine. I’m not permanently damaged, if that’s what you were wondering.’

‘I— no—’

‘Are you feeling guilty?’ Sherlock still hadn’t risen from his chair, and, from the kitchen, John could feel his stare on him.

Was he feeling guilty? No, he really wasn’t.

‘No. Are you?’

Sherlock didn’t respond. 

John brought him his tea, which Sherlock accepted with a nod. John grabbed the newspaper from the coffee table where it lay open and sat in his chair.

‘Do you want me over the desk? Is that why you came here?’ Sherlock casually asked as John began reading the headlines.

‘No, not particularly. Do you want to go over the desk?’ Sports. John turned the page.

‘We’ll see.’

Sherlock sipped his tea.

‘So you’re not mad at me?’ 

‘I agreed, John. I knew what the arrangement entailed.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ A picture of Theresa May discussing her upcoming phone call with Donald Trump.

‘When have I ever wanted to have this kind of conversation?’

‘Fair enough.’ 

John didn’t want to talk, either. Later, perhaps. Not today.

John skimmed through the political pages. On page 3 was a story about the strikes at the NHS. It reminded him of Mary, which, in turn, reminded him of Sherlock’s betraying his vows to protect her.

‘What about your vows?’ someone asked in his head in Mary’s voice.

John closed the newspaper.

‘Sherlock, do you—?’ 

Sherlock had already moved from his chair. He was standing near the desk, having removed his suit jacket and was currently in the process of unbuckling his belt. John’s eyes met Sherlock’s briefly, or they crashed together briefly, rather. 

By the time John reached the desk, Sherlock was extending his belt, his lips curled in a small smile. John took the belt and doubled it over.

‘Lower your trousers,’ he said in a tight voice.

If the order came as a surprise to Sherlock, he didn't show it. His hands went swiftly to his fly. Seconds later, his trousers pooled at his feet.

‘Over the desk.’ John’s impatience kept building. If it didn’t begin soon — 

Sherlock stepped out of his trousers, turned around and leaned over the desk in one fluid motion.

John pushed Sherlock's shirttail out of the way and brought the belt down harshly. The strikes came hard and fast, almost as forceful as John could make them. The sound of the leather belt on Sherlock’s arse filled the living room, the CRACKS impossibly loud.

Under John's right hand, Sherlock was tense and unmoving, as if the pain didn’t register. 

‘You can make noise and you can kick. I won’t stop even if you do.’

John hit Sherlock’s arse three times in rapid fire.

CRASH

CRASH

CRASH

This time, Sherlock groaned and stomped his right foot once.

‘Five more, Sherlock.’

The last five were the hardest of all. 

John removed his hand from Sherlock’s back, wet with sweat. Like last time, Sherlock stayed bent over the desk for a few moments after the thrashing had stopped, collecting himself.

 

‘Do you want water?’ John asked.

‘Yes.’ Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper, his shoulders and back rising with each ragged breath. 

When John brought him the plastic bottle he'd found on the kitchen table, he realized he was still holding the belt. He gave both items to Sherlock, finally looking directly at him 

Sherlock was shivering, the last of his tears still running down his cheeks.

‘Are you okay?’ John asked, his anger dissipated yet not quite turning into empathy.

‘I will be.’


	4. Ghosts

Over the next few weeks, John and Sherlock met exactly seven times, all of them ending with John spanking Sherlock. The intensity and the specifics varied. On one occasion, John stopped after three blows and didn’t use Sherlock’s belt. Another time, he continued long after Sherlock had started crying openly. His chest rested against the kitchen counter, Sherlock didn’t safeword, so John just went ahead until the storm in his own head cleared out, which took about two dozen strikes. Sherlock had been in his underwear that time, and by the time they were finished, two patterns of red marks coloured his pale skin: the dark flushed marks visible right under the line of his pants, and the imprint of John’s stabilizing right hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. John hadn’t been holding Sherlock down. Sherlock could have stood up and left at any point during his spanking. He hadn’t. The next day, John noticed Sherlock avoided sitting altogether but refrained from mentioning it.

The topic of their strange arrangement wasn’t broached outside of the times it happened. John was usually the one who made the first move, though he often wondered if Sherlock wasn’t always subtly pulling the strings. 

John’s anger and sadness didn’t disappear, but the abyss of his despair felt marginally shallower. Before his and Sherlock’s attempt at catharsis, he often found bloody scratches on his palms from having his hands balled up in tense fists all the time. Though he still did, it didn’t happen as often. John’s sleeping habits were also improving a bit. He still got up at night for a glass of whisky or two. Relapses were difficult. One night, John drank a whole bottle of scotch, his entire body shaking while he felt paralyzed by a sense of fear and horror the scale of which he had never experienced before. 

As days turned into weeks, he also started thinking about Elizabeth, the pretty woman he’d met on the bus. Before Mary died, they had texted a lot, a string of little nothings that made John’s days a bit brighter. In the shock of the aftermath, John hadn’t thought about Elizabeth at all, his mind obliterated by white rage. Now, the thought of her was adding shame to his sadness. One night, after he came back from an episode of milder controlled violence at 221B, John deleted Elizabeth’s number from his phone. He had no room in his life for her, or any other woman. 

John wasn't exactly sure how Sherlock was faring. During their time together, there were flashes of the companionship and intimacy they once shared. In those short moments, John felt like their hearts and brains were temporarily aligned. But it never lasted past that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovely people! 
> 
> Since I finished this fic, I've started working on the seven times I mentioned in this chapter. I'm posting them as I write.  
> For those interested, you can go check them out under the title "Deleted Scenes" (part of the same series). It's not necessary to read any of it to understand Burnt Bridges, and it's really me having enormous fun writing spanking scenes (and trying to sort of move the plot a long in a minor capacity), but if you're into this sort of stuff, it's there for you to see. 
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Eloise


	5. Breaking point

John’s day was particularly stressful. Rosie had a runny nose, his leg was hurting, and his patients treated him like a vending machine for antibiotics. He needed to blow off some steam. A few days prior, Sherlock had summoned John for a session of controlled violence out of the blue. Today, John wanted to reciprocate, so around noon he decided to text Sherlock.

‘Can I drop by on my way back from work?’

‘Acceptable. SH’

‘Say 4ish. I have to pick up Rosie at 5.’

Sherlock didn’t reply. 

The rest of John’s day was uneventful, but his stress was still running high when he arrived at 221B.

Sherlock was flopped on the sofa, his eyes closed. Judging by the fact that he was wearing his blue dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, John guessed that Sherlock hadn’t gone out all day. For some reason, it angered him.

‘Hey,’ John said.

Sherlock ignored him. It angered John further.

‘Sherlock, I don’t have all day.’

Sherlock turned his face to John slowly before getting up without a word.

He undid the belt of his dressing gown and kept his eyes fixed on John.

‘Get over here,’ John ordered.

Sherlock complied in silence. As he wasn’t wearing regular trousers, he didn’t have his leather belt on. John looked around to find something, anything, to make do. When he couldn’t find the right object, he decided to start with his hand.

Sherlock removed his dressing gown and lowered his pyjamas before leaning over the desk. 

When John’s right hand settled on his back, Sherlock shivered, and when John’s left hand crashed against the seat of his pants, he drew a harsh breath.

The second strike was harder, the third harder than that and the fourth harder still. John felt Sherlock squirm under his hand.

‘Be still,’ John barked, hitting three times in quick succession. He felt annoyed and angry and frustrated and exhausted and…

‘Stop.’ Sherlock’s voice came clear and strong. 

While John processed what was going on, Sherlock rose from the desk. He grabbed his dressing gown, which he quickly slipped on. 

Trying to get his breathing under control, John looked at Sherlock in angry confusion.

‘This is not what we agreed on, John.’ 

Sherlock’s voice, his stance, the way he looked at John’s, everything about him was suggestive of cold. The acquiescent demeanour he usually kept around John had shifted to the haughty condescension he reserved to anybody that wasn’t John. At that moment, entire worlds separated them.

‘What—’

‘You using me as your willing punching ball. What you did just now is what you apologized for after the morgue incident. This isn't controlled violence. It is the opposite of it.’

Cold sweat started to cover John's back.  
Sherlock was right. He’d done it again. He'd lashed out at him and effectively abused his trust.

‘Sherlock—’ John started, uncertain as to what he would say next. 

Unbearable guilt threatened to overcome John’s entire person. He had to make it right. He had to.

‘I want you to do it to me,’ John stuttered.

Sherlock raised his hands, visibly declining his offer. 

‘What I just did to you, Sherlock. Do it. Respond in kind.’

To show how serious he was, John undid his fly and pushed his trousers down. He then threw himself over the desk and waited there in terse agony. The air in the room was so thick with tension John wondered how there could still possibly be enough oxygen for Sherlock and him to breathe.

Suddenly, he felt soft pressure on his shoulder.

‘I’m not going to hit you, John. This thing we do, it isn’t punishment.’

‘I want you to hit me,' John reiterated. 

‘As bizarre as it may sound, John, sometimes, your wishes aren’t command.’

‘What are you saying?’ John asked, pushing himself away from the desk into a standing position to face Sherlock.

‘I know you’re hurting, but you need to listen to me. It’s not all about you,’ Sherlock answered, not unkindly.

The enormity of Sherlock’s words hit John hard.

‘John.’ Sherlock was composed and calm. ‘When you got married, I told you you were the kindest and the wisest man I knew. Mary’s death—it’s shaken you to the core. This isn’t you. This is your anger and your guilt.' Sherlock paused. 'I don’t think we can continue with our arrangement.’

As in a state of waking dream, John nodded his agreement. 

‘Sherlock, I'm so sorry — Please, please forgive me.’ The words choked him up.

‘It’s all right.’

‘I will never raise my hand on you again.’

‘I know.’

‘Sherlock, I—’ John paused.

In his confused frenzy, John realized that ‘love' and 'you’ were the next words he had in line. Adding to the unbridled emotions which seemed about to engulf him whole, the thought stunned him.

‘I should go,’ he said, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

John fixed his clothing and hurried towards the door and into the street.


	6. What it is

‘Molly will be here in twenty minutes.’

The day before, Mycroft had asked John, Molly, and Mrs Hudson to take turns keeping Sherlock company. What triggered the decision remained unclear to them, but they had all agreed in order to avoid further conversation with Mycroft.

‘Oh, I do think I can last twenty minutes without supervision.’

It was John’s first ‘shift’. It was also the first time he’d seen Sherlock since the catastrophic end of their attempt at catharsis as well as his realization that he loved Sherlock.

Slowly, the thought was becoming less foreign to him. Truth be told, it was the second time it happened. Years ago, in a Power Station of all places, someone had forced him to acknowledge that despite his claims to the contrary, his feelings for Sherlock were not strictly platonic. Back then, Sherlock’s dismissal of all romantic prospects had put an end to John’s brief indulgence in wishful thinking on the matter.

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

Conversation felt awkward between them. John wanted and didn’t want to leave. He wanted and didn’t want to look at Sherlock. He wanted and didn’t want to talk. 

‘Sorry, it’s just — you know, Rosie,’ John explained.

‘Yes, of course, Rosie,’ Sherlock mirrored, a little too eagerly. 

‘You’ll be okay for twenty minutes?’

‘Yes. Yes! Sorry, I— I wasn’t thinking of Rosie.’

‘No problem,’ John answered in a stiff voice, getting up and moving towards the door.

‘I should, uh, come and see her soon,’ Sherlock offered. 

‘Yes.’

John made an attempt at a small smile, but a tight-lipped grimace was all he could manage on his way out of the flat.

‘Are you okay?’ Sherlock’s voice suddenly called from the living room.

John laughed mirthlessly and walked back inside. As if on cue, the words poured out of him. 

‘What— am I — no, no, I’m not okay. I’m never gonna be okay, but we’ll just have to accept that. It is what it is; and what it is is — shit.’ 

Mary's death. Rosie's overwhelming needs for constant attention. Sherlock's sadness and the love, likely unrequited, that John felt for him.

Sherlock. John glanced up. In his chair, Sherlock looked concerned and vulnerable. The sight pulled John out of his train of thought, his heart clenching. 

Not everything is about you, he recalled.

Regardless of their nature, his feelings for Sherlock were inconsequential. They had to be. In that moment, what mattered was bringing solace to Sherlock.

Well, John realized suddenly, there was one parting present he could give Sherlock. Though he wasn't aware of it, he'd had it ready for a while now.

‘You didn’t kill Mary.’

John paused to let Sherlock absorb what he'd said.

‘Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No one made her do it. No one could ever make her do anything — but the point is: you did not kill her.’

From across the room, John could see the tears welling up in Sherlock’s eyes. 

‘In saving my life, she conferred a value on it.’ Sherlock said in a low voice, ‘It is a currency I do not know how to spend.’

John nodded. The bridges were all burnt to the ground.

‘It is what it is.’ 

John hesitated one more time and turned back to the door. ‘I’m tomorrow, six ’til ten. I’ll see you then.’

John had reached the top of the stairs for the second time when a sound he’d thought he’d never hear again caught up with him.

A female orgasmic sigh.

John's heart sank. The probability of his feelings being unrequited had just become absolute certainty. Even temporary delusion was no longer an option. This is what total rock bottom must feel like, John thought. 

In a daze, John walked back into the living room.

‘What was that?’

‘Mm? What was what?’ Sherlock asked.

‘That noise.’

‘What noise?’

John cut to the chase, disappointment and jealousy thick in his voice.

‘Do you go to a discreet Harvester sometimes? Is there a — night of passion in High Wycombe?’

‘I don’t text her back,’ Sherlock answered without missing a beat. 

‘Why not?’ John asked.

A long moment passed, with John and Sherlock staring at each other, neither daring to break the silence. Finally, Sherlock spoke slowly. 

‘John. I've been meaning to tell you for a long time now—"

'Please answer the question, Sherlock.'

'I was—I am' Sherlock said, holding his gaze. 'I have known many people in this world but made few friends, and I can safely say that you—‘

Something inside John broke. Suddenly, he couldn't hear it.

'I—Sorry, Sherlock. I don't think I can be here right now.'

'John,' Sherlock insisted. 'Forgive me but you are doing yourself a disservice —.'

'I know, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for others, isn't your area. And maybe you're right —'

'Will you let me finish?' Sherlock raised his voice.

‘Mary—I cheated on her.’ John cut him off.

Sherlock fell silent, shock written all over his face.

'No clever comeback?' John asked. 'I cheated on Mary. There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I’d been playing with Rosie. And this girl just smiled at me. That’s all it was; it was a smile. We texted constantly. You want know when? Every time Mary left the room, that’s when. When she was feeding our daughter; when she was stopping her from crying – that’s when. That’s all it was, just texting. But I wanted more. And do you know something? I still do. I’m not the man she thought I was; I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point. That’s the whole point.’

Only when he stopped talking did John notice he was crying convulsively. He couldn’t see through his tears or hear through his sobs, so it came as a surprise when he felt Sherlock envelop him in his arms.

‘It’s okay,' Sherlock whispered in his hair.

‘It’s not okay,’ John protested against Sherlock's chest, drawing him nearer, tightening their embrace.

‘No. But it is what it is.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you to Ariane Devere for the transcripts of TLD!
> 
> Confession time: I always knew I wanted to include bits of the conversation that led to the hug, because I wanted to keep the hug, which added a good ten years to my life expectancy. That's why I mentioned Eurus in Chapter 4. I hope it doesn't feel too contrived. This chapter was by far the hardest to write.
> 
> I also wanted to include a heads-up to ASiB because no one, Gaslighting-in-chief Gahfat, the BBC or otherwise, will convince me that the scene in Battersea wasn't about John realizing he was in love with Sherlock. So there.  
> (Bitter? I'm not bitter. You're bitter.)
> 
> One more chapter to go!


	7. Deductions

John couldn’t remember how he made it home after picking up Rosie that evening. 

He changed her diaper, fed her, bathed her, and put her to sleep in her pretty bedroom, avoiding to look at the magpies painted on the wall which reminded him of his wedding day. 

He climbed down the stairs, grabbed the two-day-old half-empty bottle of whisky from the kitchen and sat down on the sofa.

Two, maybe three hours later, his phone pinged with a text.

‘We need to talk. On my way. SH’

The alcohol slowed down John’s brain. Staring at the phone in his hand, he felt completely lost and absolutely ill-equipped to have a heart-to-heart with Sherlock. The doorbell interrupted his thoughts.

John let out an unsteady sigh and walked to the door.

Sherlock was behind it, his tall dishevelled silhouette striking against the darkness.

He pushed past John and went into the living room. 

‘When you said you weren’t the man Mary thought you were, what did you mean?’

John followed him blearily.

‘I—I wasn’t happy in our relationship. I wanted more. I—I wanted out.’

Finally. He'd finally allowed himself to feel it and to say it.

‘That’s why you feel so guilty. You feel like you betrayed her.’

‘I think blaming you for it—yeah, blaming you for it was the easiest cop-out. It stopped me having to face what a bad husband and a bad father I’d been. The—emotional distance, it was all me. Our relationship died before she did—before Mary did’, John added, forcing himself to say her name.

‘Are you in love with the girl on the bus?’

‘Wh— No. I haven’t heard from her in weeks.’

Sherlock inhaled sharply. 

‘Do you want to know why I agreed to your controlled violence? Why I let you beat me and felt better because of it? It’s true, I did feel better. Not because I feel responsible for Mary’s death. I wasn’t quick enough and I didn’t protect her, but she made the choice to take that bullet for me. I don’t want to strip her memory of the noblest thing anyone ever did for me.’

Sherlock paused.

‘Do you know what it is I’ve tried telling you for about five years now? Will you hear it this time?’

Uncertain, John nodded slowly.

‘I love you — John,' Sherlock's voice was soft and uneven. 'I’m a broken person who never had a friend or understood the depth of human connection until I met you. I’ve become a better man from having you in my life. Please John—‘

Dizziness struck John and he stumbled across the room, his legs unable to carry him.

He half collapsed, half sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands, crying uncontrollably for the second time that day.

The sofa dipped right next to him.

‘Your anger at me, and your guilt—John, do you love me, too?’ Sherlock asked so low John almost didn’t hear him.

Wiping his tears away, John turned to face Sherlock; the look in his eyes spoke of gratitude and infinite devotion. 

‘I can’t remember a time when I didn’t.’


End file.
